Trident Force (26 page)

Gritting his teeth, he took a few steps aft, the wind threatening to pick him up and blow him over the stern. When he got to the base of the funnel, he pulled out a set of keys and opened a door into the largely hollow structure. After closing the door behind him, he paused again and looked down. He was out of the wind and out of sight and might soon be warm again. He was standing on one of the blower flats, the little mezzanines built onto the inside of the funnel to provide a space to mount the blowers, which forced fresh air into the main engine room. Running up the center of the funnel were the two diesels' exhaust risers. The space around him was all in shadow, although he could look down and see the brightly lit engine room almost fifty feet below. Where they would be expecting him in another forty-five minutes.

Cagayan sat next to the blower as the heat and roar of the engines flowed up and past him. Shaking, he opened the front of his jacket and took off his gloves, hoping to let the heat in.

After about ten minutes he zipped his jacket closed and put on his gloves again. Standing, he turned and grabbed the rungs of a ladder welded onto the funnel's inside. Then he started to climb.

It was a long, tiring, nerve-wracking climb as the ship's violent motion was multiplied the higher he went. On several occasions it threatened to flip him off the ladder and into the air, through which he would inevitably crash down into the engine room far below.

Beginning to sweat, he paused to catch his breath, hanging on for dear life as he did. He reached into his pants pocket and rubbed the phone.

The phone was his ultimate power, but he now understood it was an impersonal power. True power, to be satisfying, had to be personal. He had to be able to see the fear and awe in their eyes. Just what the army officer had seen in Cagayan's father's eyes before he killed him. Shock and awe at its most personal level. It was something Omar had not mentioned, but it had now become as important to Cagayan as the basic mission.

When he reached the top of the ladder, he opened a round hatch through the funnel's cap and continued to climb. The bitter wind returned, tearing at him, and the hot, acrid diesel stack gas made him gag.

He looked down at the ship below and the chaos that surrounded it, and the bitterness of the stack gas, and of his whole past life, blew away in the gale. He was above it all now. He was a god.

He reached out and grabbed a long, soot-stained, plastic-wrapped package that had been secured about two feet from the hatch. Using his pocketknife, he cut the lashings that held the heavy package and pulled it toward him. On one end it had a rope loop, which he put his arm through. He stepped back down the ladder, closed the hatch and continued down, back to the blower flat. There he opened the package and checked the AK-47 that it contained. All looked in order. As did the two hundred rounds of ammunition.

After stuffing the waterproof plastic wrappings in a space behind the blower and laying the gun on it, Cagayan opened the door in the side of the funnel and stepped out onto the weather deck. At the moment the weapon would be a hindrance.

 

When Mike made it back to his command center in Captain Covington's conference room, he found Alex still propped in a chair in the corner, holding herself in position with her feet jammed against a bulkhead and a bookcase while she tapped furiously on her laptop.

“That the sort of thing you guys do in the real navy?” she asked with a brightness that contradicted the worried expression on her face.

“Captain Covington did a good job. I don't think I could have done it. Maybe we should try to recruit him.”

“How many casualties?”

“Three or four broken legs, a mild concussion and a lot of bruises. And Congressman Evans.”

“Did he die?”

“A few minutes ago.”

“Alan wants to talk to you. He called a few minutes ago and got pissed when I told him now was not the time for anybody here to be accepting phone calls. He said call back pronto—or else!”

Mike returned the call.

“You got the situation under control yet?” demanded Parker.

“Nothing's changed, Alan, except that the captain succeeded in turning the ship and now we're headed directly for Ushuaia.”

“That means what, another thousand miles?”

“More or less.”

“Another two days?”

“More like three if the weather stays like it is.”

“Now listen very carefully, Mike. Thanks to the media this whole thing has become highly politicized. The other side has attached itself to this like a flea to a dog. We have to be seen to be
doing something
! It's obvious that somebody aboard that ship knows something! You're going to have to detain those people—the ones on your list—and sweat them. And make sure the media's there when you take them into custody. Cuffs and all.”

Mike wiped his hand across his face. He was fully prepared to admit he hadn't succeeded in his mission, but he was certain Alan's demand would contribute nothing to the well-being of
Aurora
and her passengers and crew.

“Okay, Alan. We'll work on it. I've got to run now—somebody said Senator Bergstrom wants to meet with me,” lied Mike.

“Calm him. Reassure him. He's bound to have something to say to the media afterward. How's Evans, by the way? It was on the news along with the other injuries.”

“He died a couple minutes ago.”

There was no denying that Alan was close to SECDEF and that the media had identified him as one of the DOD's top naval experts, but Mike found it extraordinarily easy to not listen to his advice at times. Alan had never actually served in uniform, as he assured everybody he would have liked to do. His manly libido had driven him to an early fatherhood, and everybody who did wear a uniform was damn well aware of it. He was, however, an avid hunter of small game.

“Boss, it's Jerry. He has to speak to you.” As she spoke, Alex shook Mike's shoulder.

“What? Oh, yes.” Mike woke up, but not as immediately as he prided himself in doing normally. He'd fallen asleep in one of the conference chairs. He'd fallen asleep while both Alex and Ray, who'd been even more beaten up than he was, were still hard at work. He stuck out his hand, not wanting to look Alex in the eyes.

“It's okay, Boss. I've been sneaking catnaps when nobody's looking, and Ray landed in Chrissie Clark's lap during that turn and is now so in love he could stay awake forever.”

“He's got a wife and daughter . . .”

“Who he loves dearly, but he's a very impressionable guy.”

“Captain?”

“Yes, Chief?”

“We've found the missing engineman.”

“Where?”

“In a void next to the number two fuel tank.”

“Dead?”

“Yes, sir. We haven't touched a thing, but it looks like somebody did something to his head.”

“Anything else obvious?”

“A lot of Baggies, some with various colored pills, then some with white stuff and some with brown.”

“No indication that he might also be in the bomb business?”

“Nothing obvious.”

“Very well. Don't touch a thing and keep everybody away. Especially the media. I'll call Captain Covington and have Dave Ellison and Dr. Savage join you. Where's Ted?”

“He's on his way from the forward storerooms.”

“Good. Alex and I are on our way.”

“Roger.”

“Sounds like we've solved one mystery without solving the big one.”

“Sounds that way. Bring the camera. We did bring one, didn't we?”

“Boss!”

16

The Drake Passage

The scene of Hensen's death was at the end of a narrow passageway that led to the Main Engine Room. Mike and Alex arrived to find Captain Covington, Dr. Savage, Dave Ellison and Mr. Acosta, the second engineer, all standing talking quietly. Off to one side stood a very young oiler named Rodriguez. From the expression on his face he knew that whatever he'd gotten himself involved in was not good for him and wished he could just disappear into the bulkhead.

Mike went immediately to the opened void and looked in. The body was lying on its side, almost in a fetal position. There was blood smeared around near the head and a bloody rag lying next to it.

“Who found it?” asked Mike.

“Rodriguez, here,” answered Covington.

Mike turned to the young oiler. “Is this how you found it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But,” spoke up Patti Savage, the ship's doctor, “I moved the head an inch or two to examine the wound.”

“Your conclusions?”

“That he was stabbed repeatedly in the temple and the ear with something sharp. There appears to be a little bit of gray matter mixed with the blood.”

“A marlinspike? A screwdriver? An ice pick?”

“A small marlinspike, maybe. Or a screwdriver.”

“Must have been bloody, yet I don't see any blood around.”

“Must have cleaned up after himself. Makes sense.”

“How long's he been dead?”

“A couple days . . . That's really little more than a guess.”

“Since he was reported missing?”

“That seems very likely.”

“What's on the other side of the voids?”

“The number two diesel tank, sir,” replied Acosta.

“What was Rodriguez doing here?”

“Reinspecting, sir. On my orders.”

“Who inspected it originally?”

“I can check, sir.” Acosta raised his walkie-talkie and asked Main Control to check the inspection records.

“It looks to me like Rounding was our man,” offered Dave Ellison. “This would explain why he ran.”

“But why did he do it?”

“Hensen must have seen him doing something or maybe he knew something.”

“Jake Rounding didn't do this,” said Patti Savage with a sigh. “He was a troubled man, but I'm certain he wasn't this troubled.”

Ellison gave her the sort of look cops give you when you suggest they might be wrong.

“Damn!” mumbled Acosta as he listened to his walkie-talkie. “The original inspection was done by an oiler named Cagayan. M. Cagayan. I sent him myself, now that I think about it. He's small enough to get into some of the smaller voids and the bilges.”

Savage looked slightly sick. “Cagayan came to me the day Hensen seems to have died with a very bloody arm injury. His shirt was soaked, but the injury really wasn't that serious. I bandaged him up and sent him back to his duty station.”

“That's right.” Acosta nodded, a look of distress on his face. “I sent him to Dr. Savage. He was on sound and security patrol and came back bleeding. Said he'd hurt himself in the same damn bilge we're standing over now.”

“Is Cagayan on watch or searching now?” asked Mike, tension in his voice.

The second engineer again called Main Control. “No, sir,” he finally replied. “He's due to report in fifteen minutes.”

“Rodriguez, do you know Cagayan?”

“I've spoken to him, sir. I don't really know him. I don't think anybody does.”

“Do you know where his quarters are?”

“Yes, sir. They're next to mine.”

Mike raised his walkie-talkie to his mouth. “Ted, where are you?”

“About forty feet from you, sir.”

“Stop right where you are. It looks like an oiler named Cagayan may have killed Hensen. He's due to report at Main Control in about fifteen minutes. I want him alive! Is Jerry still at Main Control?”

“Far as I know.”

“Join him there.”

“What does he look like?”

Mike looked at Acosta and Patti Savage.

“He's remarkably small and thin,” said Patti. “Filipino.”

“Very small and thin,” repeated Mike to Ted. “He's a Filipino.”

“Roger.”

“And I Roger that, Boss,” said Jerry's voice. “I'm at Main Control.”

“Art,” Mike then said, turning to Covington, “please seal the ship the best you can from the main deck down and post men at any scuttles or hatches that must remain open. They're not to try to stop this guy. If they see him they're to get out of the way and report to us.”

“Roger.”

“Dave, secure the site. Are you equipped to lift fingerprints?”

“Yes.”

“Then see if you can find any . . . Also see if you can find any blood that might not be Hensen's”

“Okay.”

“Alex, we're going to pay a visit to Cagayan's quarters. Rodriguez is going to be our guide.”

Alex nodded. Rodriguez looked far from happy.

“Captain,” said Dr. Savage, “if you're done with me, I'd like to get back to my patients. I seem to have quite a number at the moment.”

Covington looked at her.

“Sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded.”

Covington then glanced at Mike.

“Of course,” said Mike. “And we all hope like hell there won't be any more customers for you this voyage.”

“What about Ray, Boss?”

“Let him sleep for now. I don't see how he's gotten around the past few days on that ankle.”

“Pills,” said Dr. Savage over her shoulder. “My pills, but they won't keep him going forever.”

A few minutes later, for the second time in twenty-four hours, Covington passed the word that the fire and flood doors would be closing, and thirty seconds later bells started ringing and red lights flashing as the heavy steel barriers slid into position.